Not lost, although I long to be
by Hungrysherlock-wink
Summary: John's grandson remembers the stories he was told as a child. And he realizes what they meant. He sees the metaphor. He sees the love written between the lines.


**_Disclaimer: If you are not aware of the fact that I do not own these characters, you should be. Because I don't. Own them I mean. And this is me, informing you thusly._**

_From me to my Valentine. _

_This is a fic that I hope to expand a bit, over time, with more messages from John's grandson. _

_I know I have another fic in progress, but I just can't bring myself to end it yet. _

_All my love. _

_Especially to you, you know who are, darling. _

_Happy Valentines Day, to everyone._

_The song for this chapter is "When the Day met the Night" by Panic! at the Disco._

_And the title for this fic is from the poem "I Am Not Yours" by Sara Teasdale_

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><p><strong>When Dusk met Dawn<strong>

My grandfather had told me a lot of stories. Daring tales of the World's only Consulting Detective and the terrifying Moriarty and the vulgar Magnusson. Visits to morgues and faked deaths and the dark days that followed. My grandmother would smile fondly and remind him that were it not for those dark days, they would never have met. She never would have become Mrs. Mary Watson

Of course, my grandmother had many tales of her own, of the days before Grandpa, the days of her epic adventures. A different woman, with a different name. But those she always told when it was just us. Hidden little adventures that grandpa weren't told about, and as I realised later, didn't want to be.

But I will save those for another time, because my favourite story my granddad, Captain John Watson, MD, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had told me, was the one of the sun and the moon.

When Dawn met Dusk.

When Yin met Yang.

It had many names, but in my mind it was always the sun and the moon. And it was only lately that I had come to realise what the story actually meant. I now heard the metaphor and the sad jagged edges of unrequited love behind the words of my childhood.

I remembered long and lazy Sunday afternoons on my grandfather's lap. I remembered the words as they swirled around me and painted a morose picture.

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><p>Before time, before the myths of old, before Venus and Adonis. Before Aphrodite and before Cupid, there was a love that would surpass all others. A love that would set the standard for all those that came after.<p>

Yin and Yang waged violent wars in the sky, because, for a moment in time; or an eternity, since no one had yet tamed the temptress time yet, they two opposing forces. Out of sync and out of harmony.

You see, for the sun to rise in the morning, the moon had to die. And for the moon to rise each night the sun had to bestow this same favour. And for that catch of long forgotten history, the sun and the moon were each so set in their principles that they refused to this. So, they battled. Their clashing forces repelling each other.

Yang, the warm passionate sun, could not stand the coldness of the moon.

And Yin, the order-driven and calculating moon could not understand the easy chaos of the sun.

The world was falling into ruins under this epic battle.

Until.

Until there was a warm caress. Until the cold exterior started melting just the tiniest bit. Until the sun started seeing the beauty of the moon and the moon started seeing the beauty of the sun. The sun started craving law and the moon pined after anarchy.

And so Yang started bleeding into Yin and Yin into Yang.

They were slowly forming a single entity. Against all odds, the sun had decided to trust the moon. And the moon had started to let his harshness slip for the sun.

They continued in their blissful harmony, affecting each other more with each passing day and still unaware of the sacrifice that lay ahead.

The sun and the moon were becoming a single entity. And the world was again falling into ruins, this time under an epic love.

Because the moon can, after all, not grow too hot. And the sun can never become fully cold.

They still had a purpose to serve.

They still needed the world to live.

Yin learned that cold calculation and sheer desperation was the deadliest calculation. He learnt that as he fell. He fell for the sun. He fell for the world.

And Yang was left behind, chasing his old love in staccato beats, never quite being able to catch up.

And they fell into their fatal rhythm.

Each morning as dawn breaks, so do the hearts of two.

And each time night falls, it is with the dreams and hopes of two.

It was a love and a sacrifice that warmed and cooled the whole world. A love that cast a golden glow across the skies each morning. A sacrifice that darkened the heavens every evening.

The first star crossed lovers, bound to the sky. Bound to their selfless sacrifice. A love that taught us that world's can bloom if we put the needs of others before our own. Like our world did when dusk fell in love with dawn.

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><p>It is only now that I recognize the sad glint in my grandmother's eyes at the story.<p>

It is only now that I recognize the synonyms. Sherlock. Yin. The moon. Dusk. The one that fell.

John. My grandfather. Yang. The sun. Dawn. The one that stayed behind.

Maybe dusk never stopped loving dawn.

And dawn never stopped loving dusk.

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><p><em>I'd shave for reviews.<em>


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